Chapter 2
1188 Words
My knees almost buckled. "What did you just say?"
Dante Carver didn't repeat himself. He just watched me with those dark eyes, waiting. Like he had all the time in the world and I was the one who'd come begging.
I forced myself to stay standing. "You're lying."
He moved around the desk. Each step was deliberate, controlled. Everything about him screamed danger, from the way he held himself to the coldness in his expression. This wasn't a man who made idle threats or wasted words.
He stopped three feet away. Close enough that I could smell his cologne. Something expensive and subtle that probably cost more than my rent.
"Your father came to me two months ago." His voice was flat. No emotion. "He had information I needed."
"Information about what?"
"That's none of your concern."
Heat flooded my face. "He's dead. That makes it my concern."
Something flickered in his eyes. Annoyance, maybe. He turned away, moving to the windows. His back was to me now, hands in his pockets. The suit jacket pulled tight across his shoulders. He was tall, built like someone who didn't just sit behind a desk all day.
I hated that I noticed. Hated that even while my hands shook with anger and fear, part of my brain registered how attractive he was. Sharp jaw. Perfect posture. The kind of face that belonged on magazine covers, not in police reports about organized crime.
This was the man who might have killed my father. I needed to remember that.
"Why did you have my father killed?" The words came out steadier than I felt.
He turned his head slightly. Profile sharp against the city skyline. "I didn't."
"Liar."
Now he faced me fully. His expression hadn't changed, but something in his stance did. More alert. More focused.
"Be very careful with your accusations, Samantha."
"Or what? You'll cut my brake lines too?"
He moved fast. One second he was by the windows, the next he was right in front of me. I stumbled back, hitting the desk.
"If I wanted you dead," he said quietly, "you wouldn't have made it to this building."
My heart slammed against my ribs. This close, I could see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. Could see the small scar above his left eyebrow. Could feel the heat coming off his body.
Run. Every instinct screamed at me to run.
But I'd never been good at listening to instincts. That's why I'd dated three different "bad boys" in college, each one worse than the last. My therapist said I had a type. My mother said I had a problem.
Standing here, trapped between Dante Carver and his desk, I was starting to think they were both right.
"Then tell me what happened." I forced the words out. "Tell me why my father's dead."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because you'll end up the same way."
He stepped back. The loss of his presence felt like a vacuum. I could breathe again, but I wasn't sure I wanted to.
"Your father was involved in something dangerous," Dante continued. "Something that got him killed. The smartest thing you can do is forget about him and move on with your life."
"That's the second time today someone's told me that."
His eyes narrowed. "Someone contacted you?"
"Phone call. Blocked number. Told me to stop asking questions about you."
I watched his face carefully. If he'd sent that call, he was a better actor than I thought. Because the muscle that ticked in his jaw looked genuine. So did the way his hands curled into fists.
"What exactly did they say?" His voice had dropped lower. More dangerous.
"That I should forget about the brake lines. Forget about you. Go to Dad's memorial and cry like a good little girl."
"And instead you came here."
"I'm not good at following orders."
Something that might have been amusement crossed his face. It was gone before I could be sure.
"Clearly." He moved back to his desk, pressing a button on his phone. "Marcus. Get in here."
The door opened immediately. A man entered who looked like he ate bodybuilders for breakfast. Bald, massive, with a suit that barely contained his shoulders.
"Sir?"
"Ms. Montgomery is leaving. Make sure she gets to her car safely. Then have someone follow her home."
"Wait." I straightened. "I don't need a babysitter."
Dante looked at me like I was a child who'd said something stupid. "Someone threatened you today. Someone who knows you're asking questions about me. You absolutely need a babysitter."
"I didn't come here for your protection."
"I don't care what you came here for."
The dismissal in his tone made my face burn. I'd stormed in here demanding answers, and he was treating me like an inconvenience. Like I was nothing.
"Did you love him?" The question came out before I could stop it.
Dante paused. For the first time since I'd entered, his expression shifted into something almost human. "What?"
"My father. You said he came to you with information. Did you care about him at all, or was he just useful?"
The silence stretched between us. Dante's face had gone carefully blank again.
"Marcus. Get her out of here."
The bodyguard moved toward me. I held up a hand.
"I can walk myself out."
"No." Dante's voice cut through the room. "You can't. Marcus goes with you. Non-negotiable."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to throw something at his perfect face and demand real answers. But the look in his eyes stopped me. It wasn't cruelty or indifference.
It was fear.
Dante Carver was afraid. For me or of me, I couldn't tell.
"Fine." I headed for the door. Marcus fell into step behind me.
I made it to the hallway before Dante spoke again.
"Samantha."
I turned. He stood in the doorway of his office, backlit by those massive windows. Untouchable. Unreachable.
"Your father was a good man. Better than most." He paused. "Better than me."
Then he closed the door.
Marcus guided me to the elevator in silence. We rode down forty-three floors with my mind spinning. Nothing made sense. Dante Carver admitted knowing my father, admitted Dad came to him with information. But he wouldn't say about what. Wouldn't confirm or deny involvement in his death.
And that look. That flash of fear when I mentioned the phone call.
The lobby was emptying out as evening approached. Marcus walked me to my car, scanning the parking garage like threats might jump out from behind every pillar.
"Mr. Carver's orders," he said when I unlocked my door. "Someone will be watching your apartment tonight."
"Great. Just what I need."
I climbed in and started the engine. Marcus stepped back, but I could feel his eyes on me as I pulled out.
My phone buzzed with a text. Unknown number again.
I almost didn't look. Almost threw the phone on the passenger seat and drove straight home.
But I looked.
The message was a photo. Me, walking into Carver Tower. Timestamp from forty minutes ago.
Below it, two words:
Last warning.
- Writer
